


Picture This

by Vera_dAuriac



Series: Brothers of Vere [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Canon Divergence, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Sibling Incest, artwork as plot point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 15:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18013451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_dAuriac/pseuds/Vera_dAuriac
Summary: Laurent and Auguste are posing for a portrait, but Laurent needs more from their sitting than just spending time with his brother.





	Picture This

**Author's Note:**

> Most of this story is just 16-year-old Laurent’s incestuous desires for Auguste, with only a small, mild hint of actual incest at the very end. This is possibly the beginning of a series, and if that happens, the incest will get very real and explicit.
> 
> As I said in my notes to my Laurent/Nicaise fic, not knowing for certain what the age of consent is in this ‘verse, I think of a 16-year-old Laurent as entirely capable of consent, but I marked this Underage in an overabundance of caution.
> 
> On my CPKinkBingo Card, this checks off Pictures/Recording.
> 
> Don’t own these folks, etc.

 

**By Vera d’Auriac**

Laurent twitched again, unable to remain still with an erection pushing so firmly against his laces. Auguste grunted deep in his throat, not wishing to move his mouth, but Laurent clearly understood his meaning—hold still for the artist and do not fuck this up. Of course, it was easy for Auguste. He stood firmly with his feet comfortably placed, his warm hand resting on Laurent’s shoulder, staring straight before him. Laurent, on the other hand, had been placed on a hard stool and told to turn sideways and tilt his head back so that he might peer up at Auguste admiringly. And Laurent did admire him—his sharp jaw and shining lips, his throat exposed by the slightly undone collar. Auguste was the most beautiful creature Laurent had ever seen in his 16 years, and even though most people considered it unnatural, Laurent could not help feeling a bit in love with his brother. A bit in lust, if he were being honest. And to be forced to stare at him like this all afternoon for the sake of a portrait struck him as both cruel and sublime.

“Your highness,” said Laurent’s torturer, the artist, “I need only a few more minutes, if you could please hold the pose a tiny bit longer.”

“Of course,” Laurent answered through a clenched jaw, desperate to wish away the ache in his drawers.

But the artists did not get his few minutes, although it was in no way Laurent’s fault. Orlant burst into the room, and informed Auguste that the King desired to see him, and that artistic pursuits were not an excuse. The painter sighed, and Laurent felt an ache in his chest to match the one lower down at losing Auguste’s company, but Auguste merely nodded.

“I will see you later,” he whispered to Laurent. “If father finishes with me in time, perhaps we can spar.”

“That would be very nice.” Laurent’s answer sounded calm and even to his ears, but Auguste’s chuckle made Laurent think his brother might somehow know just how exciting the idea of a spar was to him.

Laurent watched Auguste leave, his elegant gait belying the dense muscles beneath the flawlessly tailored clothes. Once the door closed behind Auguste and Orlant, Laurent remained in place, hoping his erection would fade a bit before he had to stand up in front of the artist. At least his pose had his hands in his lap to cover these embarrassing moments. (Today had not been the first time he had found himself so afflicted since he and Auguste began sitting a week ago.) But then the artist gave him a stare with one eyebrow quirked that made Laurent ill at ease.

“Did you wish for me to stay?” Laurent asked. “Is there anything you might do without Auguste here as well?”

“Well,” the artist said, pleasantly surprised at this suggestion, “I could certainly use a few more studies of your head, if you would not mind staying for, perhaps, a half an hour more.”

“I am amenable,” Laurent said, certain he would experience no discomfort standing thirty minutes from now.

And so he sat, trying not to think of his brother, since that would prove rather counterproductive. But his thoughts automatically drifted to Auguste, his shimmering blond hair, his strong, long-fingered hands with their web of tiny white scars from swords and daggers. And that led Laurent’s thoughts to the scars under his clothes that no portrait painter would ever see—the gash in his side made by Damianos at Marlas before their single combat was declared a draw and negotiations reopened. At those negotiations, it finally came to light that their uncle had orchestrated much of the war and the attempt on the life of the king. With him executed, it was remarkable how quickly Vere and Akielos came to terms.  

And most importantly, Auguste was saved. Yes, Laurent was happy his father had not died, but without Auguste, he would have been lost. He was not merely older brother, but mentor, idol, god. Auguste was at the center of his thoughts about leadership, the military, and love. Auguste was his everything, and more nights than otherwise, Laurent fell asleep to the image of his brother in his mind and woke to questions of how Auguste had slept and what he had planned for the day. Laurent knew his affection had crossed into a realm not accepted even at the Veretian court, but Laurent did not care, for what did it matter? His thoughts were repugnant to many, but no deed would ever arise that, should the court uncover it, they would frown upon, because Auguste certainly did not feel the same. Auguste had pets and lovers, and soon would likely have a wife. What would he want with an awkward little brother?

“If I may say so, you have a most magnificent line from the side of your neck up to your ear,” said the artist. Laurent had been lost in his own thoughts and had not expected the man to speak, and he started. “I hope I do not offend, your highness. You are a lovely young man, and it has been a pleasure to sketch and paint you.”

“Well.” Laurent paused, flattery something he would rather ignore than answer. “My brother is surely the finer subject.”

“The crown prince is an extraordinarily handsome man—no one could deny that. But you have a delicate, youthful beauty. Truly, it has been one of the highlights of my life to have both of you available to put onto canvas and paper.”

Laurent, naturally, agreed with him about Auguste, but he had heard his own beauty praised more than enough for one day. “Have you finished with your sketches of me?”

The artist sighed and made a few more hasty scratches on his pad of paper. “I could happily sketch you and your brother all day, but yes, I have taken up more than enough of your time, and I do have some excellent representations of your likeness to help me finish my work.”

“So, you intend to finish after Auguste and I have stopped sitting for you?’

“I have a process in which I sketch, and then paint, and then sketch more before touching up the painting. Many subjects are not available for that final portion, so I have a system by which I usually capture in my sketches their attitude and particular turns of light off their skin so that I might finish the painting without the subject before me. It works well, I have found.”

Laurent’s mind worked quickly as he stood, happy to stretch his limbs and back in new directions. “So, you have sketches of my brother? Many of them, in fact?”

The artist nodded and stifled a chuckle. “I have many. Of course, I am a greedy man and would take many more should I have the opportunity, but when dealing with a man of his position, I make do with what I am granted.”

“May I see your sketches?”

For the first time since their conversation began, the artist appeared as twitchy as Laurent had felt earlier. “I would not dream of denying your highness anything you wish for, but I have found over the years that it is best for a subject to not see himself while the work progresses.”

Laurent shook his head as he strode confidently across the marble floor to where the artist had his easel and work table. “I could not care less to see the sketches you have made of me or how I currently might appear in your painting. No, I’d like to see your sketches of my brother, if you would oblige me.”

“Well, yes, I suppose that would be fine.”

The artist really had no other option, Laurent now leaning over him with the regal power that he might not project the way Auguste and their father did, but that was his by implication. The artist dropped the sketchbook he had been using, and Laurent caught a glimpse of himself, and while he could imagine the artist occasionally received complaints from subjects, he had no issue with how he had been portrayed. Still, Laurent grew impatient with the artist as he slowly pawed through his other sketchbooks on the table before finally hesitating with the cover opened only a few inches of the one he held.

“These are just quick sketches, you understand. They are references for later, and not exact representations to the best of my talents.”

Laurent scowled down at the man, propped up on his little stool that looked almost as uncomfortable as the one Laurent had been sitting on all day. “Show me.”

After inhaling deeply, the artist flung open the sketchbook to reveal Auguste in all his spectacular beauty. He was drawn in simple pencil lines, and yet this nervous little man captured his regalness, his beauty, and his intelligence. Laurent leaned over and began flicking through the pages, happy not to pause on sketches of himself alone, longing instead to see his brother in all his glory. On one page, the artist had captured just Auguste’s face, the angle slightly from the right and a shade below, as though the artist were less than his subject and must look up to him. Another was a full-length study of Auguste in profile, his spine straight, head erect, fingers wrapped around the hilt of the sword at his side.

But then Laurent stopped turning pages. Laurent could remember the moment the artist had sketched this particular drawing. It was their second day of sitting, and Auguste and Laurent had both grown weary and restless, and a silly and affectionate mood like those from childhood overtook them. They giggled over an old joke about Counselor Guion, but the artist had chastised them. They stopped laughing and moving restlessly about and had frozen grinning at each other while the artist’s pencil flew across the paper. Perhaps on the next page Laurent would have found himself in that moment, or a dual portrait with his brother, but this drawing captured only Auguste. It went to mid-chest, the intricate jacket he wore that day blurred in haste to capture his expression, because nothing mattered but the glow on Auguste’s face.

His lips quirked up into a small, but genuine smile. His eyes as blue as the waters of Ios sparkled. And what made it special was that Laurent knew Auguste had been looking at him in that moment. It was the most intimate and beautiful of the sketches, and it was because of Laurent. His heart ached at his brother’s loveliness.

“Do you still need this one to finish the portrait?” Laurent asked as though every breath didn’t cost him.

“It is a rather nice sketch, if I do say so myself.”

“I did not ask you to praise your own work,” Laurent snapped. “I asked if you still required it to complete your work.”

“I, well, I suppose I do not. I went in a different direction with the crown prince’s mien. Something more royal, you could say.”

Laurent ripped the page of the book, ignoring the artist’s pained gasp. “Then you will not mind if I take it. Thank you so much for the gift.” Without waiting for the artist to find words, Laurent left the room, intending to go directly to his private room to look at the drawing for as long as he so desired.

***

The first night Laurent had possession of the sketch, he merely stared at it. The second night, he looked at nothing else until bed and then put out the light before taking himself in hand with the image of the sketch still burned in his mind. The third night he came to terms with his shameful urges and he left the candle burning so that he might gaze upon his brother as he pulled himself to the point of ecstasy. He wondered how he would face Auguste the following day, but in that moment as he saw the gentle smile as it had been turned upon him, Laurent could not bring himself to care.

But life at court went on as it always had. Laurent and Auguste finished sitting for their portrait and they went riding together and sat at the same table for meals. They had long conversations about military tactics and Laurent kept Auguste company during a fitting for new clothes. All the while, Laurent’s desire for his brother grew and his obsession of the sketch consumed him. When Laurent was not with Auguste, he took solace in the drawing. The edges curled in, but the pencil lines never smeared and he took absolute care to never brush it, and even carefully tucked it away behind his books so that he need not fold it or rub it against some envelope to hide it away when he was not looking at it. The picture was Laurent’s life, more important than meeting with the men at court or sparring or studying poetry.

Laurent believed he could have gone on indefinitely this way, presenting a neutral face to those at court during the day, while spending the night gripping himself, his fingers pressed deep inside, as his eyes traced every line of the sketch. But that life was not to be. Instead, one night, well after supper when he assumed all would either be in their own beds or someone else’s, when he was alone with his candle and the sketch, his door opened. He snatched away the drawing by the corner using the hand that had been around his cock and only mildly sticky with precum as opposed to the fingers behind him coated in oil. He tried to stuff it under his pillow before the intruder reached his bed, but Auguste was swift, and before Laurent could tuck it safely away, his brother held it up to the light.

“So this is what you have been doing with your nights, Laurent?” Auguste said in even tones that Laurent could not judge. “You have been vanishing early, even by your standards, but when I ask you the next morning about your night, you do not seem well-rested but you have read nothing new. At last, I have my explanation.”

Laurent could not look at his brother, his face turned toward his pillow, his vile hands twisted in the sheets. “The ancients were said to sometimes love their siblings. From afar. I…never mind. I will suggest to father that I go away. Acquitart, perhaps.”

And then that warm hand rested on his shoulder as it had for so many days and weeks while they sat for the portrait, and Laurent did not dare to hope. “Why would you leave? I would be sad without you. As for this.” Laurent could hear Auguste rustle the paper, but he did not look up to see Auguste shaking it. “This is nothing. Or rather, it is nothing bad. You find me attractive, do you?”

“You are the loveliest man in the world,” Laurent answered breathlessly, honesty the only response he could manage.

“That is not true. You are far more beautiful than I.” The bed shifted as Auguste sat down in the sliver of space Laurent allowed him, unable to scoot back and offer more room. “Laurent, do not feel ashamed over this. If anything, congratulate yourself on your ingenuity.”

“My ingenuity? You must be joking.”

Auguste ran his fingers through Laurent’s hair, pushing it from his eyes. “Yes. I’m quite put out with myself that I did not ask the artist for a sketch of you.”

Laurent moved his eyes to look up at his brother, but he could not breathe. “Why would you want a sketch of me?”

Auguste’s hand laced deeper into Laurent’s hair before gliding down to a gentle touch at the nape of his neck. “I think you can understand why. Buy perhaps I do not need a sketch. Perhaps neither do you.”

“Wait. What are you suggesting?” Laurent asked, his heart racing, his erection full once more. Had he not assured himself that Auguste could never possibly want what he wanted? What was so forbidden?

“We will talk again, Laurent.” Auguste set the drawing on Laurent’s bedside table next to the candle and the oil. And then he leaned down and gently pressed a closed-mouth kiss to Laurent’s lips that sent a flood of sensation through his entire body. “Good night. Rest well, dear Laurent.”

“Good night, Auguste,” Laurent whispered. And then again when his brother stood and started for the door, “Good night.”


End file.
